


I love a man from California/He’s the prettiest thing, we got the same disorders

by vamm_goda



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Jeff Carter is mopey, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Prompt Fic, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-04
Updated: 2012-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-29 08:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6367909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vamm_goda/pseuds/vamm_goda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeff Carter adapts to Columbus as best he can, because it's not Philly and hey, there's always LA . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	I love a man from California/He’s the prettiest thing, we got the same disorders

**Author's Note:**

> From a lyrics prompt I ran ages ago. Lyrics were posted, pairings were gathered, and fic was written.   
> Lyrics from the Distillers - The Young, Crazed, Peeling

Columbus sucked. More than he expected it to, considering that he’d spent most of his summer being pissed off and imagining all the horrible things that Columbus could have in store for him. Nasty restaurants and ugly chicks in probably spandex and Rick Nash beaming at him like he was his new favorite thing, trying to show him all the best sights. He imagined all the shit he’d have to go through and when he finally dragged himself off the couch and showered he got to find out for sure.

It was . . . okay, it was still pretty much hell, but it was hell with hockey so that was something to get him up each day. Anything where he could play hockey wasn’t completely unsurvivable, no matter how much people liked to pretend he didn’t care. And yeah, Nash was kinda annoying and kept dragging him to restaurants and what he called good clubs, which just went to show how different their definition of ‘club’ was. And also ‘good’. But the guys themselves actually are good, even if the team left something to be desired. And Jeff can totally get over it. He can. He’s heard all of the detractors and they can go fuck themselves – he even got over fucking up his foot, so he can get over this.

When he isn’t able to play he starts to watch, and maybe he catches a few more Kings games than he strictly speaking needs to. But the thing is . . . Richie just isn’t something to get over. You get over things you regret, and maybe the things you don’t like but need to deal with. Richie is neither of those things. Jeff keeps watching because he wants to remind himself of that.

It isn’t like they stopped talking or anything; they still text and sometimes remember to call. It’s better than nothing, and it isn’t like Mike is dead or anything. They can still chat but they can’t hang out and they can’t fuck, and those are really the two things he misses most about him. The part of their friendship that involved drinking too much and waking up sore and hungover and grinning like a couple of maniacs.

He could never say they are, like, two halves of the same soul or anything. Because that’s cheesy and also not true. But they do have a lot of the same interests, a lot of the same little ragged edges that seem a little bit smoother when they’re around each other, so there’s that.

The fact is, without Richie to take off his edges he kinda becomes an insufferable asshole, even when he isn’t injured. Which, y’know. He isn’t proud of but also doesn’t really know how to help with it, so it isn’t like he can even begin to work on fixing it.

He doesn’t exactly love Richie but . . . he does. It’s really fucking complicated, okay? He can’t explain it, but he does. He’s turning all sharp edges and unrequited bullshit and there’s nothing he can do about it because Richie’s in LA, land of silicone and ready and willing, and he’s stuck with the fucking Blue Jackets because Philly didn’t even care about him enough to trade him to a decent team. He’s probably lost his fucking mind, because instead of being mad about all the hot girls he’s missing out on, he’s getting jealous of them because they’ve got Richie in their beds and he doesn’t. He’s jerking it almost every night to what he can remember, and it’s almost like he’s doing it out of desperation to not forget. By the time January rolls around he is losing his mind and okay. Okay, maybe he’s kinda got it really fucking bad, but he can’t actually do anything about it so he’s just as screwed as he would be if he didn’t realize it. So why can’t he just go back to not realizing it?

His life sucks, is the point.

He realizes he has a shitload of karma to collect, and he figures this is probably the way it’s happening.

When he gets the call, he’s pretty sure he heard it wrong. That he’s actually being told he got traded to, like, Winnipeg or some equally hopeless place.

There’s no fucking way. None.

It’s not until he’s half passed out on Mike’s chest, trying to get over how hot LA is because he’s not fucking moving, that he finally realizes yeah, okay. LA.

It fucking rocks.


End file.
